


No Place Like

by Xparrot



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Moving In Together, Post-Live Show: Condos, apparently in Night Vale sap comes with a chance of burning alive, sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/Xparrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cecil said, "I've heard many couples find it romantic--it's a fun bonding experience!" Carlos considered the Night Vale definitions of 'romantic', 'fun' and 'bonding', then took out another life insurance policy.</p><p>~</p><p>Housewarming, Night Vale-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Place Like

**Author's Note:**

> So I just really needed some C/C fluff. And lo, I wrote a Night Vale fic under four thousand words - it's a podcast-day miracle! 
> 
> Post-Condos, though more by coincidence than design.

It wasn't that Carlos believed Cecil. At all. When Cecil said, "I've heard many couples find it romantic—it's a fun bonding experience!" Carlos considered the Night Vale definitions of 'romantic', 'fun' and 'bonding', then took out another life insurance policy.

But he owed Cecil—he owed Cecil so much, and god only knew Carlos wasn't an ideal boyfriend at the best of times; but especially now he had a lot to make up for. After being the one to broach the idea of moving in together, he'd let Cecil do most of the heavy lifting. Literally, since on moving day they were hit with that plague of loci.

A locus being considerably different from a locust, even Night Vale's practiced exterminators were challenged. Carlos spent all day working with the mathematicians; by the time they'd solved for all possible conditions, it was well past midnight, and he'd misplaced his new keys under a stray parabola. He ended up crashing on the cot in the lab, rather than going over and waking up Cecil to let him in.

And Cecil assured Carlos that he understood, saying the movers had done most of the work anyway and his interns had handled the rest. He picked up replacement keys at the hardware store and eloquently thanked Carlos for saving the town on the air. And he was vocally enthused to help pack Carlos's meager boxes of possessions into their cars and drive them over to his new home—to _their_ new home.

The bungalow was 'cozy', according to the realtor, but had a large yard, and two baths and two bedrooms, the smaller of which they hadn't yet decided whether to make into a guest room, an auxiliary lab, or a shortwave radio installation. They got an excellent deal on it, thanks to Cecil's connections and also, probably, because of the bandersnatch in one nailed-shut closet. ("It could be worse," Cecil had said, when they were considering their options, "at least it's not jubjub birds.")

Carlos had seen the place several times already. But still, it caught him off-guard, when Cecil opened the door and over the boxes in his arms Carlos got his first look at the newly furnished living room.

It wasn't that Carlos minded Cecil arranging the decor without him. Carlos would have put his futon to the right of Cecil's couch, out of the sun; and perhaps wouldn't have placed the bloodstone circle quite so prominently. But their crimson hue did coordinate with the drapes; overall, Cecil's unusual taste in fashion translated well to interior design, much more aesthetic than Carlos's utilitarian instincts.

But it gave him pause, to see Cecil's comfortable couch in his living room. In _their_ living room; and that was now _their_ comfortable couch. Cecil's ancient CTR television with the classic rabbit ear antennae was now _their_ ancient CTR television with the classic rabbit ear antennae. Even the bloodstone circle was _their_ bloodstone circle.

"So," Cecil said, brightly to cover obvious nerves, "what do you think?"

Carlos put down the boxes to kiss Cecil, on the threshold of _their_ house. "It's great," he said.

He honestly thought so, too. And it had been his idea to live together; he wanted to, of course he did.

But it was a particularly busy time at the lab, with a number of long-term experiments starting to yield results. Plus tax season was approaching, and between government grants and Night Vale's labyrinthine revenue codes, better to get an early start. And the latest batch of grad students needed chaperoning until the town weeded out the psychologically incompatible and the tragically unlucky.

With so much to do, Carlos ended up sleeping at the lab more nights in the next week, and didn't have a chance to cook in their new kitchen, or watch TV with Cecil on their comfortable couch. He realized it was ironic that they were seeing less of each other now that they were living together, and felt guilty about every text he sent instead of going home for dinner. But it wasn't as if he could take Cecil out on a date to apologize properly; that would be ridiculous, when they shared a house. 

So when Cecil mentioned a traditional housewarming and consecration ceremony, in an artfully diffident manner, as if he hadn't brought it up on his show three times in as many days, Carlos said yes. Romantic fun bonding experience and all. It was the least he could do.

He refused to reconsider when Cecil brought out the ceremonial robes—the stains were nearly invisible; Cecil had bought Carlos's used, but had taken it twice to the town's most reputable drycleaner. He'd chosen perfectly; the robe fit like it had been tailored for Carlos, rune-embroidered hem just brushing the floor. The raw silk was softer than it appeared, and Carlos always had looked good in red. And it complemented the scarlet trim of Cecil's rich aubergine robe.

Carlos didn't question when Cecil closed all the windows—he'd filed the correct permits, he assured Carlos, speaking loudly enough for the secret police to overhear—and opened every interior door. Even when they stood in the bloodstone circle and lit beeswax candles over every stone, Carlos refused to hesitate. He gamely echoed Cecil's eldritch chanting as best he could, only understanding every other word, but enjoying the rich cadence of Cecil's baritone. As much as he liked listening to Cecil's show, Carlos couldn't help but relish in having that voice all to himself sometimes.

The candles around them flickered in time with Cecil's chant. Under the invocation, Carlos heard the silence settling over the house, absolute but not quite oppressive. Every creaking floorboard and clattering vent, not yet familiar enough to be ignored, went quiet, as if listening to the chant.

Finally Cecil stopped speaking, lowering his arms. He smiled at Carlos, all his teeth gleaming in the candlelight, and murmured, "Okay, we're now in resonance. What questions do you have?"

"—Questions?"

"For the house," Cecil said. "You know, like," and he raised his voice, addressed the room at large, "Where do your lost socks end up?"

There was a metallic clink, the hollow knocking of a heating duct, off to the left. "The east-most air vent?" Cecil said. "Got it, thank you!"

He cocked his head invitingly at Carlos. Carlos thought for a moment, then cleared his throat and inquired, "Um, hi, so, uh...do you have any faulty wiring or bad plumbing we should know about?"

There was a pause. "It's all right," Cecil said, "we've already signed the lease."

The pause somehow took on an embarrassed quality. Then, down the hall, the bedroom lights flashed on and off, with a popping noise like a fuse blowing. "Thanks for letting us know," Cecil said encouragingly, and whispered to Carlos, "We should call in an electsorcist to look into that—good thing you asked!"

They asked a few more questions; then the candles guttered, their golden glow paling to blue-white. Cecil glanced at them and said, "All right, now it's our turn."

At Carlos's quizzical look, he explained, "Quid pro quo, right? Just be honest and it will be fine."

"But how—"

The house around them scraped and moaned as if it were caught in a windstorm, windows rattling in their frames as the kitchen cupboards banged open and shut. Carlos jumped. Cecil inclined his head, concentrating, then said, "It wants to know if this is our first house?"

"Um—the first I've owned myself, I suppose?" Carlos said. "Or, I mean, with you, of course..."

Cecil reached across the circle to take his hand. "The first we've owned together," he said. The bungalow creaked in a proud way, then inquired about future plans for pets.

After a few questions, Carlos was getting the hang of listening. So he nearly understood, even when Cecil hesitated partway through pronouncing the next, "It wants to know what here are you...are we..."

Carlos frowned, concentrating on the non-words. "...What frightens you...?"

Cecil peered into the shadowed living room beyond the candles, then recited steadily, "What in this house are we most afraid of?"

He looked at Carlos, but Carlos's mouth was dry and his mind had gone blank. He shook his head in desperation. Cecil smiled back, reassuring even in the cold candlelight, and answered, clear and sure, "Living here by myself. I'm afraid of living in this house alone."

Carlos stared at him. Cecil kept smiling, as if he hadn't just figuratively pulled his heart from his chest and placed it in Carlos's trembling hands.

(This being Night Vale, Carlos figured he should be grateful the ritual didn't involve actual removal of internal organs.

...At least not so far. Oh dear.)

The house around them was as silent as vacuum, an anticipatory quiet. "Carlos," Cecil murmured, even his voice falling flat and muted in that stillness. "What frightens you most about living here?"

Carlos swallowed, worked his dry tongue and stammered, "Uh, the basement? Between the undetectable seismic activity, the eight new species of desert molds we've catalogued, and the as-yet unidentified spider responsible for the two-meter cobwebs—"

The candles guttered, then ignited like their beeswax been replaced with gunpowder, showering Carlos and Cecil in sparks and sulfuric smoke. Rather than burning out, the candles kept blazing, the flames leaping up, trapping them within a circle of sizzling blue-white fire.

Carlos wondered if it was an illusion, some sort of auditory-enhanced mirage, until the hem of Cecil's robe caught alight. Carlos stamped it out, as he shouted over the blaze, "What's wrong? Why—"

Cecil's face was drawn up, though more unhappy than frightened. "I told you, we have to answer honestly!"

"But I _did_!" Carlos protested, babbling in his panic. "The basement legitimately terrifies me—I've never liked cellars; I'm mildly claustrophobic, and while I'm not usually afraid of the dark, the dark in Night Vale is so much _darker—_ "

The crackle of the flames rose to an angry roar, as if to prove light could be more terrible than any darkness. Carlos tried to back away from that blasting heat, but there was nowhere to retreat.

Then Cecil stepped close, lifting his arms to make a circle around their faces, blocking the smoke and the worst of the heat with his robe's sleeves. "Carlos," he said, his baritone low, not the assured cadence of the broadcaster, but softer, gentler—that private voice so few got to hear. "You have to say what _most_ frightens you. There's an infinity of things to fear in an infinite universe; but here, now, one fear is greatest, and you know which it is. So say it."

Carlos stared at him. The furnace-heat around them raised rivulets of sweat on his skin, but his mouth was dry as sand. Outside the circle of Cecil's robes, the flames pressed closer, bending in as if to steal the oxygen from their lungs. "I—I can't," Carlos gasped out. "Cecil, I can't—"

"You must," Cecil said, coughing on the smoke, "and you _can_ , I know you can." He winced, gritting his teeth; his sleeves were catching, flames licking over his arms. But he kept them raised, between Carlos and the fire, as he said, "You're a scientist; you can always speak the truth."

He was going to burn—he was burning, shielding Carlos with his own body, unless Carlos could put out this blaze. Only he had no extinguisher, no water, not even a blanket to smother the flames to save Cecil; only his own voice, his own meager and pathetic truth—

"I'm afraid of living with you," Carlos whispered, and then when he couldn't hear his own voice over the fire, he threw back his head and shouted up at the ceiling, "Cecil, I'm afraid of _you_!"

The inferno flared blue, azure like the daytime sky outside Night Vale—then dwindled back down to conventional candle flames, too tiny to even hear snapping.

Cecil completed the ritual. Carlos repeated the chants by rote, staring down at the living room floor. It was finished walnut, stained dark, knots and rings forming intricate maps. He'd suggested getting a rug, but Cecil had looked scandalized. At the time Carlos had assumed it was because of the bloodstones, but he wondered now if Cecil just appreciated the hardwood.

Cecil blew out the candles one by one, going counter-clockwise around the bloodstone circle. It wasn't until he was bending over to extinguish the last one that Carlos heard his breath catch in suppressed pain, and snapped out of his guilty fugue. "Cecil, your arms—"

"It's nothing," Cecil said, "I've gotten worse at summer bonfires, even when I wasn't the kindling." But he let Carlos tug him over to the couch, sit him down and disrobe him, carefully drawing off his scorched sleeves.

The skin underneath was an angry pink but not blistering, no worse than a bad sunburn. Carlos braved the snapping mouths of the aloe flytrap in the kitchen to break off a couple leaves. He spread their clear sap over Cecil's arms with his fingers, keeping his head down, concentrating on his task. Not thinking about Cecil's silence; not thinking about how still Cecil was sitting, holding himself motionless, not so much as a twitch though the burns had to sting. Nothing like he usually was when Carlos's hands were on him, the physical enthusiasm that was as flattering as anything Cecil said aloud.

At last Carlos couldn't take it anymore. His throat was raspy and sore, from the smoke or from shouting, but he grated out, "Cecil, I'm sorry."

"Why?" Cecil asked, sounding surprised. He didn't make Carlos explain, instead added, "You only told the truth, like I told you to. And it worked; we're fine, and the house is fine with us—"

"Are we?" Carlos asked. "Are we fine?"

"Carlos," Cecil began, raising his hand, and Carlos couldn't help but flinch at his burned arm.

Only Cecil took his guilt for something else, by the way he froze, then, almost stealthily, withdrew his arm. He folded his hands together and set them in his lap, and shifted back on the couch, to put a cautious space between himself and Carlos. "Apologies," he said, and his voice was hoarse now, too, though it had been smooth before. "I know you can't help what you're afraid of; selective emotions are rather beyond either of our salaries. And I can't say that you shouldn't be afraid of me; you're far too smart to believe that. But I hope you know that I'd never hurt you, Carlos, not intentionally, not if I had any remaining choice or will of my own—"

"What?" Carlos said, snapping up his head to look at Cecil. Cecil was staring down at his hands in his lap, as if they were holding onto his composure; it was a fragile thing, to tell by the effort he was taking.

"I'm not afraid you're going to hurt me," Carlos said. "Nothing like that."

"Oh?" Cecil's voice was quiet, fragile, too, as he raised his eyes to Carlos's.

Carlos forced himself to hold still and meet his gaze, so that Cecil could see he was telling the truth, even without an inferno blazing around them. "I am afraid that you'll _be_ hurt," he said. "Living in this town, doing your job. Or protecting me."

"But that could happen whether or not we're living together," Cecil said, questioning.

"Yes," Carlos agreed. "Actually, it's occurred to me that living together increases the probability that I'll be available to rescue you, should it be called for. Or otherwise, the probability of us perishing together—which isn't a fate I condone, regardless of romantic ideals; but sometimes I've wondered if it wouldn't be preferable. Over having to learn how to live in a universe without you."

"Oh," Cecil said, even softer. "Oh, Carlos." He reached out, and Carlos leaned in, not flinching but moving carefully to not rub off the aloe sap on Cecil's arms, as they wrapped their arms around one another. Cecil brushed kisses into Carlos's hair, as Carlos put his lips to Cecil's neck, traced the line of his jaw and felt Cecil shiver gratifyingly, murmuring his name.

Though after a blissful moment, Cecil caught his breath to ask, "But if it wasn't that, either, then what about living together are you afraid of, Carlos?"

Carlos let his head drop to Cecil's chest, listened to Cecil's heart beating, a little fast, almost in time with his own.

How to describe the meaning of that sound? There was biology, cardiac muscle tissue contracting at the command of autonomic neurons, propelling hemoglobin through the atria and ventricles. There was cultural symbolism, valentines and the seat of romance. There were traditions of rhythm, dance and music led by that compelling beat; and a plethora of literary metaphors.

So many different facts, but none of them equal to explaining this existence, to solving this miracle.

In a year—in ten, twenty, fifty...

"This," Carlos said. "I'm afraid of this." He shut his eyes, said, "I've had roommates, but I've never moved in with anyone before, Cecil. I've never dated someone for that long; I always broke up with them before it reached that state. Or sometimes they left me first, but that was because they could tell I was going to. I've never really had my heart broken by anyone."

"I'm not going to break your heart," Cecil said. "I'm not going to leave you—you don't need to fear that, Carlos."

"I don't," Carlos said. "That's not what I'm afraid of. What scares me is—is this couch. I know this couch, I know how to avoid that one annoying spring under the right cushion. What scares me is knowing what vent to find our lost socks in, and what box you keep the candles for bloodstone ceremonies, and what closet shouldn't ever be opened because it has a bandersnatch—and I don't know what a bandersnatch is yet, but sooner or later I'll get used to it, and that—that frightens me as much anything I've ever encountered in this town.

"I didn't come to Night Vale for the normal, Cecil. I've never wanted the ordinary. And this _—_ that _this_ , that this house, could become familiar, could become routine...more than anything, I'm afraid of coming home and seeing you, and that not being anything special. That being with you will be something I'll just expect, that your presence will become merely a mundane constant of my reality, no more significant than my bed or my car. I'm afraid of taking you for granted, Cecil—of forgetting to appreciate the most fascinating part of my life."

Cecil blinked. "The most...in this house?"

"In this house," Carlos said, "in Night Vale, in America, in the universe; but I'm a scientist, and what if it's not fascinating _enough_ for me?"

"Oh, my Carlos." Cecil combed his hand through Carlos's hair, winding his fingers through the wiry curls. "And what if it is?"

Carlos's breath caught. At last he said, shakily, "Scientifically speaking, the only way to be sure is to gather empirical evidence. By living here, with you. Making a home together, and observing the results."

He could hear Cecil's smile, could feel it like sunlight against his skin. "Even if you're afraid?"

"I'm always afraid," Carlos said. "It's part of being a scientist. Seeking the truth can be frightening."

"Truth is terrifying," Cecil said. "Beauty usually is. But you're brave enough to look for it anyway."

"I'm not brave," Carlos said. "I'm just even more terrified of not looking." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Cecil. I really do want to do this with you; I don't want to live alone anymore, or let you live here alone. I like this house, and living in this house with you, however scared I am. I'm glad it likes us, too. And I'm sorry I couldn't just tell the truth, before you were burned."

"The apology should be mine," Cecil said. "Usually the ceremony isn't that, um, heated."

Carlos snorted in spite of himself. "Yes, I've never known a housewarming to get quite so literal."

He felt Cecil's chuckle vibrate through his chest. "But it was effective," Cecil said. "The thing about houses is, they like secrets. It makes them more amenable to give them a few right off the bat. That should be enough for a while; it's not that big a place, after all. And maybe the next secrets we can make together?"

"I'd like that," Carlos said. He lifted his head to look at Cecil. "I suppose I'll have to be here more often, to make them?"

"It would help," Cecil said.

"I'd like that, too," Carlos said, and tipped forward to kiss Cecil, deep and slow, sliding his arms under Cecil's back and twisting to avoid the couch's loose spring. He could hear every whine and gasp escaping Cecil's throat and his own, every whisper of skin against skin as they moved together; the house around them was quiet, but for the faint rattle of the shutters in the wind, and the snuffling of the bandersnatch in the closet down the hall.

Carlos would have to bring some equipment home from the lab—the thermal imaging camera, perhaps a sonic scope. Tests which wouldn't require pulling up the nails keeping the closet shut. He could investigate the other nooks and crannies while he was at it; the house surely had other secrets to discover.

But right now, all he wanted was to investigate was the body under him, with the equipment he was born with. He rocked his hips, and Cecil groaned, " _Carlos,_ " against his mouth, breathless and wanting, and though Carlos had heard those syllables all his life, hearing them now in Cecil's voice, in their living room, in their home—yes, Carlos could get used to this.

He _wanted_ to get used to this; and that was almost the most terrifying part. The only thing more terrifying would be not taking this chance.

"Love you," Carlos murmured, and Cecil's eyes opened to meet his, bright with elation. Before he could answer, Carlos lifted his head and repeated, "I love you, Cecil," louder, for the benefit of their house—because even if it wasn't a secret, it was absolutely true.


End file.
